Decca, p.32
Decca, page 32
Bob wrote that Eph is being sticky about Muv’s health problems, is refusing to diagnose and insists that “she see a doctor.” Bob said that he accused Eph of “setting impossible conditions,” and stormed out. I agree…. She won’t go to a doctor; she is still annoyed with me about the Hearing Aid, which lies unused on the shelf; she says the proof they’re no good is she keeps seeing them advertised in the Lady,37 the ads. saying “practically unused.” I suggested the users may have gone to meet their maker, and the survivors may have thought the phrase, “practically unused,” an encouraging one for the potential market. As she can’t hear a word at this point, these words of wisdom are wasted by and large. Perhaps this whole problem depends on one’s will to survive, and perhaps at 80 it is not so strong as it once was…
Fondest love, Decca
I MISS YOU! WRITE SOON.
To Robert Treuhaft and Constancia Romilly
London
May 4, 1959
Darling Bobndonk,
‘Tis now 12:30 on the first day I was to really work all day on the book. As you can see, in spite of the good news I’m as bad as ever—ANYTHING to keep from it. Except, this is the last thing to keep me from it, I promise and swear. Was awake half the night stewing over the problems of a Socko (or socko-er) beginning and ending for it…
I finally mustered energy to write to Muv, Debo and Nancy about the book. Here’s how I phrased it: “I just had some terrifically exciting news. A book, which I’ve been slaving over for literal ages, has been accepted by publishers in England and the U.S. It is sort of memoirs of my life with Esmond38 …” That’s a good ice-breaker, don’t you think? You see, if I didn’t tell them, they’d think it tricky of me when they finally find out…
The great treat of the weekend was to go to Stratford on Saturday to see Robeson in Othello.39 Beautiful drive, past Swinbrook and Burford and Chipping Norton, Stow-on-the-Wold etc. Robeson was really magnificent, robed in white and gold cloak, and really heart-rending; not so, Desdemona and Iago, they were crummy unfortunately. The place packed, it’s an enormous theatre and every inch taken by standees. Seats for the whole run were sold out ages ago so I was very lucky to be invited. Afterwards, we went to see Paul backstage; it was like a dream to see him in the so-familiar surroundings of the Stratford theatre. He longs to see us in London, after you get here…
I can see I’m not going to get one ounce of editorial help around here, they just don’t work that way in England, but cruelly leave one on one’s own. It does make me a bit sad as I really thrive on suggestions and help…
This letter is really to thank both of you for I) reacting so utterly satisfactorily to the Book news… and 2) for all you did to get me to write it, as I am such a hopeless weakling I honestly wouldn’t ever have got it done without all the cheering on. (Don’t be like that, Donk; now is the time to resolve not to be.)
Now, forward to work. I have no excuses left; have had lunch, bought some typing paper, arranged my ms… wish me luck.
Greatest love and kisses to you both, Decca
To Barbara Kahn
Inch Kenneth, Gribun, Isle of Mull
May 11, 1959
Dear Kahns,
I’m sure I probably sent you this same postcard40 before, but the thing is there isn’t much range. Naught changes around here, including the postcards. We arrived to find Christine not here (she had to rush off to see about her brother, who just had his appendix out) so WE (that is, ONE, actually) are doing the cooking. I have already streamlined things to cut out one of the 4 square meals a day—we are subsisting on breakfast, lunch, and high tea, instead of tea and dinner. My next move will be to gradually introduce brunch, and finally brupper. …I am working, too, tho. Every morning, afternoon and evening—between the getting of, clearing of, and washing up after, aforementioned meals. The horror of actually finishing the book is now weighing heavily on me. Muv … asks leading questions (as to when it begins, etc) and makes oblique suggestions, such as “there should be no bitterness in it.” I merely look blank at all this. Anyway, there’s at least one copy sold, to look on the bright side…
The mail here is the MAIN thing, the great brightener of the day, so please note…. We’ve only been here 2 days, yet it seems like months or even years. The MacGillivrays (boatman and wife) are awfully nice, and provide an incongruous note of sanity in this fairly nutty place…
Fondest love, and DO write, Decca
To Pele de Lappe
Inch Kenneth
ca. May 15, 1959
Dearest Neighbor,
… Life here is now utterly peaceful & routinised…. Muv hinted broadly for several days to read the book. With great trepidation I gave her the first several chapters (childhood bit). She simply loved it—to my surprise & relief! Also says it’s all true & she had forgotten some of the bits.… Well Neighb, back to work I go. Love to all the loved ones at home.
Decca
To Marge Frantz
Inch Kenneth
mid-May 1959
Dearest old Marge,
You haven’t been very faithful about writing, I must say. ONE letter, so far. I shall hope for improvement immediately…
Old Bob arrived…. Now, we have the following division of labor: Benj brings in the morning lobster catch from the pots, eggs, cream, butter and milk from the dairy; Bob supervises the cooking and the going bad of the meat (throws it out when it does, which is constantly on acct. of the unseasonably hot weather); I double as scullery-maid and parlor-maid. The latter two offices actually are quite distinct, because the house is set up that way. There is a pantry, the parlor-maid’s domain, in which one washes up the table china and silver, and a scullery, miles away [on] the other side of the kitchen, in which one washes up the kitchen things, pots and pans etc. Bob and I had the mad idea of introducing American efficiency methods, sort of streamlining the dishwashing operation to all take place in one center, but needless to say, it hasn’t worked, as Muv simply refuses to understand it, and insists in putting the “dirties” in their respective, and proper, places.
I do love it here as it really does combine comfort with beauty. I have several complaints, natch, such as: not a single even half sharp knife in the house; a perfectly good refrigerator that hasn’t been working for years, simply because no one has bothered to get it going apparently, so consequently everything goes bad at a frightening rate; fresh vegs. of any kind, even cabbage, quite unobtain able because they haven’t come up yet, and no canned or frozen ones to substitute for same because they are “so disgusting” no egg-beater (new-fangled, I suppose); etc. etc…
Philip wrote a very nice letter He said one rather amusing thing when I was there which I’m going to try to work in. He was talking about the visit to the Marxist Heaven (described in his book) and the hat-stealing episode,41 going into details about it all, saying “don’t you remember so-and-so happening” etc. I said, “well, vaguely, but I don’t seem to remember it all nearly as clearly as you do.” Philip responded sadly, “Well it all made an enormous impression on me; but I suppose that to you and Esmond, it was just another day’s work!”
Next week we are going to have a tea party on the Isle, all sorts of oddballs, Lady Congleton of the I. of Ulva, various MacThings from Mull, etc. The etiquette of Island entertaining is that one sends one’s boat to round up the guests, then to distribute them back to their various islands…
I do so wish you were here to give a hand with the Book. Awfully disloyal of you not to have come, I’m quite sure your mother-in-law would have gladly taken care of the darling Children for you. Gollancz had 3 main criticisms: I) beginning too diffuse and skippy and rambling; 2) middle part tends to be “bald narrative” 3) not enough about Unity. So far, I agree with 2 and 3. The bald narrative bit comes, I think, from the fact that part is just as I first wrote it, hasn’t been carefully worked over, and I wasn’t as used to writing at that time as I am now…
Do write, old Marge, and get the others to, also. Enough of this blithering, back to the salt mines.
Fondest love to you, Laurent and Kids, Decca
To Constancia Romilly
Inch Kenneth
May 1959
Darling Dinkydonk,
I know I’ve been a lousy, awful correspondent lately. The reason is I am desperately worried about ending the book…
Now Dinkydonk, here is some exciting news (if it comes off, that is). Bob and I have decided to try to buy the Island from the others—buy out their shares…. Muv has been fussing to get real estate people here etc. to look into auctioning it. She thinks the others would be pleased if I were to buy it; that way, it would be kept in the family, and Muv, of course, would live here rent free for the rest of her life or as long as she wants to. A great consideration in making this decision is your feelings in the matter, I know you always wanted to keep it if we could. The thing that would make it possible is that the Romilly estate is at last being settled, so we could buy it out of that money as an investment.
We have already spoken to the MacGillivrays to see if they would want to stay; it turns out that is their dearest wish, they would like nothing better We’d work out a profit-sharing deal with them about the farm….
I’m going to get my solicitor to write to my sisters to ask if they want to sell to me. Seems quite likely that by the time I see you again I’ll be the Chatelaine of Inch Kenneth!
I’d very much like to have your views on all this, Dinkydonk. For instance, might you be interested (a few years from now) in taking a real hand here, either the farming end or possibly running a summer guest house? With Benj as (un)handy-man? Muv is very much for it, for our buying it, I mean, which is why I think the others may agree without giving trouble or trying to charge an outrageous price. But, a big point in buying it would be for you children…
Fondest love, Mother
To Marge Frantz
Inch Kenneth
May 23 rd (“I think”), 1959
Dearest old Marge,
Hooray! Tonight’s post brought your glorious long letter Do continue to send all news (if any) on the Powell case. I’ve come to the conclusion that it will be pretty hard even to get a meeting together in London to discuss it in the present limboish state.42 For one thing, talk about the Left being all fraught and disunited! Boy, you haven’t seen anything. The result is inaction on all fronts.
Well, you’re not the only one who has been slaving away on sandwiches etc. WE, too, have been active. Yesterday was the great Tea Party The guests were rounded up by boat, and were seen struggling over the seaweed in good time for me to put the kettle on. They turned out to be virtually indistinguishable from the rocks and crags that abound in these parts; it took a good 20 minutes to divest them of their gumboots, mackintoshes and shawls. We sat them all around the u-shaped dining-room table in the bow window. Whether or not we would ever get 11 people round it was a question, up to the end. Benj and I kept asking Muv, “Are they fat?”; “Reasonably fat, I should say,” was all we could get out of her. Reasonably fat most of them turned out to be, with the result that Benj had to take his tea out into the kitchen. I must say I felt awfully young at the party, as the late 60’s was the predominant age. The guests, in turn, apparently felt extremely youthful in comparison to my mother; they came up one by one to comment to me, “your mother really is wonderful for her age.” All in all, we all felt positively like kindergarteners before the tea was o’er. There was Lady Congleton from I. of Ulva, with another woman; they were the only ones to come in their own boat, which gave them a certain edge, I felt. Col. Yeaman and his wife from I. of Mull across the way. The Col, who looked even craggier and rockier than the others, started telling me: “Extraordinary how far one can see with ordin’ry opera glasses from my hill over there. For years and years I’ve watched your sister the Duchess when she comes up here …” but he stopped in mid-sentence, possibly realizing that his bird-watching habits made rather odd telling, so I never did find out if he could see her having her bath.
Then there were a Mr. and Mrs. Leicester from I. of Iona. They have a parrot which escaped out to sea the other day, and was seen by the Leicesters perched precariously on a bit of drift wood. Mrs. L. stripped to the underpinnings and swam out, about 200 yards, to rescue it. Mr. L’s sole contribution was to stand on shore, yelling out “Keep her eyes out of the water!” Better on the parrot question than on the woman question, wouldn’t you say? There’s a return tea party by Lady C. on I. of Ulva next Sunday, at which WE shall probably be the only ones to come in our own boat…
If I should succeed [in buying the island], we will expect you to refer to Bob as The Young Laird in the future. I do hope we get it, as I can’t wait to get you all over here. Terrific trees and all the things you like. Also, we should put in a few American touches, such as a proper egg-beater, a rubber dish drainer, and a knife sharpener. Possibly, even, a garbage can with a lid. Curious how one misses these handy aids to normal living when doing all the cooking and dish washing.
Bob took some pictures of the tea-party, I do hope they come out so we can bore you with them. One of the ladies—Mrs. Yeaman, I think—kept saying nervously, “oh dear! Photos! I always come out looking just like a chicken,” and as she said it, she did indeed begin to take on the appearance of a white leghorn just before it is slaughtered…
Muv has offered some criticisms of the book. These boil down to mainly two: I) that she paid the governess 120 pounds a year, not 100 as I said; 2) that she really does think I should not quote her as saying that our Conservative Member from Oxfordshire was “such a dull little man,” mainly because he is still alive, and probably never realized that he is dull…
To Marge Frantz
London
May 31, 1959
Dearest old Marge,
You have completely ruined my day. I had all sorts of plans, such as working hard on me revisions of the book, then possibly going to Hyde Park to hear the debates, or to a movie. Instead of which, I am paralyzed and miserable at home, and all because of you. The thing is, in an excess of caution I gave everyone this address with “C/o Mrs. O’Casey.” Now it turns out that all such mail goes into Mrs. O’Casey’s post-box, to which only she has the key. Today being Sunday, she is off in the country. Earlyish this morning, about 9 a.m., Bob went down in his dressing-gown to get the papers, and reported that IN Mrs. O’Casey’s locked mailbox there glimmers and shines a letter for us, on which he barely made out the return address of Frantz. He had already looked in obvious hidingplaces in case she had hidden the key in some convenient spot, but no soap. I rushed into my dressing-gown and started out of the door, armed with a kitchen knife; Bob said I would terrify the DuBois’s43 (who are in the downstairs flat) if I appeared near their door with blood in eye and knife in hand, but I went anyway. Very gently, praying for guidance the while, I tried to ease the letter out, but only succeeded in making it fall down in a position where one can’t possibly get it out. We considered several obvious things like wire and chewing gum, but of course there isn’t any such equipment around. Bob suggested telephoning the Queen, since the mail here is called the Royal Mail, to see if she has a duplicate key. The whole thing is most depressing, as I was longing for a letter, so how can one settle to anything till Branson (Mrs. O’C) comes back? The letter is now in a position (see fig. 1) where only a pair of high forceps, the kind used in extremely difficult childbirth, could get it out (see fig. 2) so I am just sending Bob down to Harley St, quite near here, to borrow some.
The letter had BETTER be interesting and up to or above your usual standard after all this trouble.
Later. Bob just read this over me shoulder, said “Oh, do you really want the letter?”; descended with an elaborate rig-up of safety pin, knife and fork. Just came back up, triumphant, having succeeded. The safety pin fell in, but the knife-and-forkmanship won the day. Anyway, you are good to have written, and send the next letter to Nancy’s, we leave here 1 week from today for Paris.…
We’ve been having a very contrasty time in London. So far, lunch with Debo at Prunier’s (there is no equivalent of Prunier’s in S.F., so I won’t try to think up one); a left-wing lawyer’s party in honor of Bob; dinner with Peter Hesketh, an old beau of Nancy’s and general friend of family; a party last night at Cedric’s, composition of which rather similar to your description of the Pete Seeger concert.…
The left-wing lawyers party was at Glorious Richard’s…. They are eagerly taking up some of our suggestions about an effective anti-Mosley campaign, by the way—since the murder,44 they are less prone to look on it as a local diversion…
Oh by the way, a Marge-like episode at the Isle.45 And, please don’t comment on it if you write me c/o Nancy, human nature being, as you see, what it is. Well, I happened to see my name on a letter to my mother and couldn’t help reading the letter. The letter was buried at the bottom of one of her desk drawers, and I happened to see my name on it when I happened to know she was taking a nap. Anyway, it was from Diana and said: “I hope Decca’s book won’t be too embarrassing, I understand from Nancy that it is only about her life with Esmond,” and all about how Mosley got his sister-in-law (Lady Ravensdale)’s book completely stopped on grounds of libel, and that Gollancz doesn’t seem like a very good publisher, but Lady Ravensdale’s publisher was also a Jew publisher!!46 So, I wrote at once to Glorious James to urge they have a lawyer familiar with ins and outs of English libel law comb it thru carefully. Luckily, there really is hardly anything about Diana in it. I already crossed out the part about her living in sin.
